The Uses of Sorrow
by thewrinkleintime
Summary: Bruce can feel the fissures forming, can feel the cracks starting to take shape.


Warnings: self harm and suicidal thoughts

* * *

"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift." -Mary Oliver

* * *

It happens slowly. There is no overnight change, no sudden departure from the norm. Bruce finds himself slipping gradually. He sleeps more, goes out less.

He exists, but he doesn't live. [Living implies action and progress. Existing is simply maintaining an in between state of gray.]

* * *

Bruce can feel the fissures forming, can feel the cracks starting to take shape. He distances himself from the group in anticipation of the great collapse. No need for collateral damage, not if it can be avoided. This is his collision, and he doesn't want any casualties. So he pastes a smile on his face, fakes a sense of contentment, and tries to act normally around the group. In private he's less together, more jumbled pieces trying to act as a functioning human. If you look closely you can see the dividing lines separating order from chaos.

* * *

The passive slide into darkness becomes full of intent. This is no accident, this is self destruction.

Bruce buys some razors, sturdy double-edged scalpels he uses to excise the darkness. He adds to old scars, finds new places on his body to desecrate.

He pushes up his sleeve and runs a finger over the lines of scars. One cut, not too deep, is all he needs. A reminder that he's alive, nothing more. Bruce finds a relatively clear spot and adds some pressure, dragging the blade across his arm and watching as his skin parts. This is his favorite moment: the precious moment before the blood begins to flow, when Bruce can see the depth of the wound and layers of tissue.

He thinks he would like to flay himself one day, pin open his skin and dissect his insides, find the source of the blackness that started it all. Bruce won't, of course [he's not that far gone-yet], but that doesn't mean he doesn't think about it sometimes, think about taking his tools and removing all the rotten parts. He knows logically that the problem resides in his mind, but Bruce can feel it in his body, can feel the pain, can feel the throbbing, the anguish pulsing through his veins.

Bruce watches the red bubble up, watches the blood make its way down his arm and drip onto the tile. He indulges in this for a few minutes before finding some gauze and applying pressure. He cleans the wound, tapes a bandage over it, and wipes up the floor. When he's done there is nothing left to suggest anything out of the ordinary. [Bruce is good at that, at erasing the signs until everything is spotless and neat again.]

* * *

Bruce starts losing time. At first it's just minutes, snippets of his day that disappear, but slowly it builds until whole days go missing. Time becomes something abstract and meaningless. Bruce counts the moments of his existence with pieces of broken glass.

He stops leaving his apartment; it's not safe out there. He prefers the known, even with the lost days and lost blood. [He drowns in red.]

He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror, doesn't connect to The Body he sees when he looks down. Cutting brings him back into the now, but it's a brief reprieve. It doesn't take long before he loses himself again. [And again. And again.]

* * *

Bruce starts planning the end. He gathers supplies, researches tirelessly, writes his goodbyes. He's tired of drifting through his days, untethered to time. He's tired of The Body, of not having a recognizable form. He's tired of the monotony of despair. He's tired.

He wonders if he'll see his mother, after. If she'll be waiting. Bruce thinks she'll understand; she knew about suffering, she knew about pain.

* * *

Tony visits him, two days before Bruce plans on ending everything. Tony looks at him like he knows, like he can see the darkness, and Bruce can't stand that. So he pushes Tony up against the door and does what he's wanted to do for a long time. They kiss and it's desperate and harsh and then it's not, then it's soft and slow and Tony pulls away.

"Whatever you're planning, don't. Just don't."

"I don't know what you mean."

Tony looks at him for a long moment, eyes filled with grief. Bruce feels cracked open, like his decaying insides have been put on display for the world to see.

Tony hugs him, hard, and Bruce shatters. His person-suit is gone, his shell has been ripped off, he is exposed and vulnerable and about to disintegrate into ashes. But he is no phoenix, and rebirth isn't an option here.

Bruce tells Tony everything, starts at the beginning and goes from there. Tony asks a few clarifying questions, but otherwise lets Bruce talk uninterrupted. When he's done Tony hugs him again. Bruce hasn't had this much physical contact in months, doesn't quite know what to do with his arms, where to place his hands. They sit on the couch in silence for several minutes before Tony decides they're going outside. Bruce asks him why.

"To see all the things worth living for. Now come on, it's getting late."

* * *

"Do you regret not killing yourself?" Bruce's therapist, Sofia, asks.

"Not really, no. Most days I don't. Sometimes I don't think there is much to live for, but Tony always reminds me of something." This doesn't seem to be the answer Sofia was looking for, as she frowns from her chair across the room.

"In the end it's down to you, not Tony or anyone else," she says. "You've got to give yourself more credit, Bruce. You survived because you chose to fight, you chose to live."

* * *

Bruce carefully places his razors in a plastic container. He gives the container to Tony wordlessly, trusting that Tony understands the significance of this gesture. Tony takes the container, kisses Bruce softly and says,"I'm proud of you."

It's not like Bruce can't go out and buy more razors, but the act of giving them up, giving them over, is profound. It means that he's ready for change, that he's ready to fight, that he's ready to live.

He's not better, not completely. He has good days and okay days and days he wants to carve up his skin. He slips up sometimes, adds to his scars or looks at his pills with a desperate longing. He might not ever be okay the way most people are, but Bruce is alright with that. Recovery is a process, not an end point. So long as he keeps moving forward, keeps getting back up when he falls, keeps trusting that he's not alone, he will make it.

[And he does.]

* * *

Notes:

Title is from the Mary Oliver poem of the same name


End file.
